Crawl
by Spooky-Girl
Summary: Withdrawal is never easy. Especially not when you're stranded on a bloody island.


G.

Only it didn't sound rich and the waves of music didn't wash over him. Instead, his fingers twitched, pressing down on the wrong strings, the wrong frets, and the sound screeched out, grating and unpleasant to his ears.

A sharp exhalation, almost a sound of desperation, and he closed his eyes, searching for some kind of strength, something to steady his fingers.

The rest of his body was trembling as if the dark hoodie he wore did nothing, but he didn't care. His body could shake and he could care less, just not the hands, not the fingers.

Charlie felt unwanted tears spring to his eyes and swiped at them angrily with a filthy hand clenched tightly into a fist. The rough tape around his fingers made his skin sting, but he ignored it, bending his head, returning his hand to the neck of the guitar, squinting in uncommon concentration as he placed his fingers appropriately.

D.

"No, no, no!" he hissed in anger.

It was all wrong, the sound, but he swore his placement was right.

More than anything he wanted to thrust that guitar outward, away from his body, smash it into the nearest tree, see the pieces on the ground, blame it for the music he couldn't make. But he couldn't, wouldn't, dared not to.

This was his baby, his only other release, and it might sound crazy, but he loved it.

His arms snaked around the guitar in an almost motherly way, cradling the instrument, resting his head on the curved body and rocking back and forth slightly.

It was him, not the guitar, and he couldn't destroy it, no matter the irritation coursing through his veins.

He sat up straight again, took in a shaky breath, and laid the guitar gently back down in the case, shutting it tightly and fastening the snaps, making sure it was safe.

With a groan, he stood, body protesting, aching, and lifted the guitar.

It was heavier than he remembered, even from just the short time before he had carried it away from camp, giving a chuckle at his courtesy, having distanced himself from the camp so not to disturb anyone. But now he was glad for the distance for another reason. He didn't want anyone to hear that mangled music coming from him. Not he, Charlie, the brother who, despite the reports, made Drive Shaft. No, he couldn't let them hear this...this failure. This disgrace.

Stumbling back into the campground, he could feel eyes on him. Locke's ever present but indiscernible stare, Hurley's sympathetic gaze, Kate looking from him to Jack, wondering, and the good doctor himself, regarding him with what might have been pity, or...understanding.

He offered a nod to Michael as he passed, and a mumbled hello to his son, a ruffle of the fur to their dog, and straightened up with some difficulty, gathering himself as he passed Kate and Jack, back to the place he claimed as his own.

He set his guitar case against the rock wall of the cave and sank to the ground with a low groan.

He had made his choice, and he was living with it. He wasn't exactly happy about it, but he was filled with an odd sense of pride, having taken the biggest step he could, throwing his stash into the fire, saying he was done with it. He didn't regret it, really. He was just not looking forward to coming down, detox was never fun.

Standing up suddenly, he announced, "I'm going for a walk."

He was regarded with looks once again, and nodded, coughed. "Right then. Off I go."

He smiled nervously before turning on his heel and heaving off into the jungle.

What he needed, he decided, was a swim. Well, not a swim, because...he couldn't swim. What he needed was a bath, really. He was sweaty, despite his shivering, and he felt grimy and gross. Maybe being clean would help him feel better.

Shuffling his feet, because the effort of picking them up was just too much to think about at that time, he headed for the beach.

The jungle was stifling, hot and humid, pressing down on his chest, and he was thankful for the steady ocean breeze that hit his skin once he emerged onto the beach.

He kicked at the sand as he trudged out of the foliage, consumed by a sudden rage that hit him in a way that scared him. Out of nowhere, he just wanted to scream, tear at his itching skin, beat something until his fists bled.

Settling for taking a deep, not so cleansing breath, he pulled off his shoes, then his socks, piling them on top of his hoodie, next to an empty airline seat. The sun immediately began to warm his bare arms, but it didn't rid him of the shaking, though he wasn't chilly. Pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it with the rest of his things, he started the trek across the hot sand, to the water's edge.

The cool water rushed up, over his feet, getting the cuffs of his jeans wet. He stood there for a moment, staring out at the water.

Just as he was about to take a step in, a voice called out, "Hey!"

Startled, Charlie looked up to see Claire making her way across the beach toward him.

Slightly embarrassed at his disheveled state, and nervous that she might find out the reason behind it, he focused his attention on his feet, digging into the wet sand.

"Hi," she said upon reaching him, grinning and slightly out of breath. "Going for a swim?"

"Uh, no, not exactly," he said, trying to force a smile, but it came out as more of a grimace. "I just, uh, wanted to clean off a bit. Get some of the dirt off."

"Not a bad idea," she said, taking in his appearance. "Hey, you all right?"

"Yeah!" he said too quickly, then ran a nervous hand through his hair, then remembered Jack's excuse. "Just...got a touch of the flu is all."

She frowned, "Wow, on top of all this? That sucks."

He nodded shortly. "Yeah...so, um...not to seem rude, but..."

"You're wondering why I came over?" she guessed.

"Not that I don't enjoy the company," he quickly said, "but yeah, just curious."

"Well," she said, "I was just wondering if maybe you wanted some company, really, is all. I was getting a bit bored over there all by myself."

He swallowed, nodded. "Uh, sure."

She positively beamed. "Great!

Nervously, Charlie smiled, and waded into the water, and she followed suit.

"The sun feels so good, don't you think?" she asked, and it struck Charlie how cheerful she was.

"Er, yeah," he said, peering at her from the corner of his eye.

"I thought I'd be tired of it by now, or burnt to a crisp," she said, shielding her eyes to look at the horizon. "But I'm not. As long as I stay in the shade most of the day, I get out of it with a tan, too."

He smiled briefly at her laugh, which was the first pleasant noise to reach his ears all day.

"Can I ask you something?" she asked suddenly, turning to face him, one hand resting comfortably on her stomach.

"Sure," he said after a moment's hesitation.

"When's your birthday?" she asked, watching him closely.

Brow furrowed, he tried to remember. "Um...December. Eighth."

A knowing smile broke onto her face. "Aha. Sagittarius. I knew it!"

"You...did?" he asked, raising his eyebrow.

"Mhmm," she said, nodding. "Astrology's a bit of a hobby of mine. It's not really as stupid as it sounds, really."

"I don't think it's stupid," he said softly, ducking down and splashing some water on his arms.

She smiled warmly at him for a moment, then jumped back a bit as a wave crashed around her. "You're a sun sign."

"Hm?" he asked, turning toward her.

"The archer," she smiled, continuing. "Optimistic, honest, jovial, philisophical."

He scoffed softly.

"What?" she asked, frowning.

"Nothing," he said.

"Am I wrong?" she said. "It's not for everyone, you know, there are exceptions."

"No," he said, twirling his ring around on his finger. "Just...not anymore."

Another frown, and her eyes went to his fingers. "Restless, too, typical trait."

He looked up, and at that moment, caught off guard, a particularly large wave slammed into his knees, knocking him forward. Off balance, he fell forward, and the wave pushed him under, tumbling head over feet.

His heat was pounding, eyes stinging as they shot open, limbs flailing, but it did no good, he was drowning, couldn't breathe, and he opened his mouth to scream, taking in a gulp of seawater.

Suddenly, his knees hit hard, jamming into the ground, and he shot upward, shooting out a leg, stumbling to his feet, coughing and sputtering.

Behind him, he could hear Claire laughing, hysterically.

Turning around, he saw her, both hands on her stomach, bent forward, hair in her eyes, face red, whole body shaking with laughter.

"FUCK!" he yelled, stumbling forward, soaked, stomping angrily onto the beach.

Gasping in much needed air, and spitting to rid his mouth of the taste of ocean water, he angrily collapsed, wrapping his arms around his knees.

Looking a bit bewildered, and hesitant, Claire emerged from the water and sat carefully next to him.

Reaching out a hand to his knee, she said, "Charlie?"

He jerked away, eyes blazing.

"I...I'm sorry I laughed," she said, eyes softened.

He could tell she really meant it, and shivered. The breeze no longer felt good.

"I don't swim," he said, wrapping his arms tighter around himself.

"What?" she asked, leaning in to hear.

"I don't swim," Charlie said. "I never learned. Bloody island I live on and I don't know how to swim."

Her eyes shot open. "Charlie! Why didn't you tell me? I had no idea! I'm so sorry for laughing...it looked funny, but...you must have been scared."

He sniffled. "Me? No."

She smiled. "That was convincing."

He shrugged, his entire body quaking.

"Are you okay?" she asked, looking at him quite oddly.

"Fine," he nodded, placing his hands in the sand and pushing himself upward.

His arms, though, protested, and gave out, sending him crashing back to the soft ground.

"Ow."

"Charlie, what's wrong?" she asked, motherly instinct taking over. "Are you sure it's just the flu? What is it?

"N-nothing," he insisted, but his breath was coming in shaky gasps.

"Charlie, you're scaring me," she said, placing a hand on his shoulder.

He tried to assure her that he was fine, just catching his breath, but he couldn't make the words form, couldn't bloody _breathe._

"Charlie?" she asked again, sounding frightened.

"Just...need...to...lay down," he said, sinking backward, hoping he could breathe easier laying on his back.

"Charlie?"

Her voice was so far away...and why was it getting so dark?

Shit.

The last thing he heard before he passed out, was Claire's scream.

"Help!"


End file.
